


Aristogeiton Fallen

by AuroraExecution



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Arguing, Classical References, French Revolution, Gen, Historical References, History Essay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 08:45:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraExecution/pseuds/AuroraExecution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a strange moment, a drunk sees fit to lecture a young god on the matter of a history assignment, and instead of smiting him, the god listens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aristogeiton Fallen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WGKT](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=WGKT).



> Written for WGKT in December 2011, for the prompt: 
> 
> "In a strange moment, a drunk sees fit to lecture a young god on the matter of a history assignment, and instead of smiting him, the god listens."

At eleven o’clock or so Combeferre stood and began to collect his papers.  “Do you intend to leave soon?” he asked Enjolras quietly.  Grantaire, woken from sleeping off his stupor in the corner of the café, merely turned his face upward to give himself a better view of the room.   
  
Enjolras waved a hand dismissively, mumbling, “Not yet.”   
  
“Then I shall have to depart without you.  Try to sleep some, my friend?”   
  
At a nod from the golden head, Combeferre said a fond good-night and went quickly from the room.  In the back room of the Café Musain, silence reigned, as the candles at Enjolras’s table guttered and flickered, painting twirling shadows across his face.  After some minutes, Grantaire suddenly felt compelled to his Apollo.  The cynic stood, swaying a little with the drunkenness still left to him.   
  
“That is no speech.”  Enjolras raised his head momentarily at the sudden sound from behind, then returned to his writing.   
  
“Grantaire.”   
  
“It is I.”   
  
“It is an essay for class.”   
  
“And yet you are quite diligent.  I should think that you were asked to write of Rousseau, then, or Robespierre?”   
  
“The professor asked for the analysis of an historical government.”  
  
Grantaire leaned over his idol’s shoulder and read a few lines of the essay.  “It is no surprise you have chosen our esteemed republic, then.”   
  
“It is they who built a society based on equality, something we are in sore need of currently.”   
  
“You admire them?”   
  
A small nod followed the previous question.  “I do.”   
  
“Saint-Just?” demanded Grantaire with a harsh laugh.  His tone was mocking.  “Desmoulins?  Danton?  Which of those old relics are you accompanying tonight?”   
  
Earnestly: “They were all important to the republic.”   
  
“They were revolutionaries, Enjolras, but also they were men.  You would do well to remember that.”   
  
“I will be as Saint-Just, who did not engage in worldly things and became a vessel of the revolution.  I will be the revolution.”   
  
In a sudden moment, Grantaire ran out of patience.  Perhaps it was the drunkenness he had not quite slept away.  He stood straight up.   
  
“Saint-Just?  Pah!  Saint-Just became an austere sort of person who was neither interesting nor particularly likable.  You may fancy yourself Saint-Just, Enjolras, but you are not yet that sort of cold and secretive creature, just as you are certainly not Danton’s fierce Jupiter.  I find you more like to Desmoulins, and one day you too will see as he did, Apollo.”   
  
“Enjolras.”   
  
“Enjolras, then.  At the end, will you, too, stand at the top of your Olympus and look down upon an empty world?  For all that he was dear to Robespierre, Desmoulins could not escape when the very revolution he built turned its back against him.  Not one of them—not Desmoulins, nor Danton nor your Saint-Just, nor even Robespierre himself survived their own republic.  Desmoulins turned his back on those dear to him, on Mirabeau, on Brissot.  Will you see your friends’ deaths one day and know it was you who sent them there?  I was once a bit of an Hébertist.  Will you give your all to the revolution and yet be destroyed by those you tried to save?  Or will you die a martyr, a Harmodius on the spears of the National Guard?  Analysis of an historical government, you say?  I recall the very assignment, and you can be sure the professor is expecting your comparison to be in an unfavorable light to our great and venerable monarchy of today.”   
  
To his great surprise, Grantaire suddenly came to realize that he had ranted for quite a while without Apollo striking him down.  The drunk hesitated for a moment, watching Enjolras’s pensive expression.   
  
“They were great men,” the young god finally said.  “What they did to create a revolution and a republic, their ideals of equality and freedom—that is what I admire about them.  Their paths went astray, but ours will not.  We will learn the liberté, egalité, fraternité from them, but we will not make their mistakes.  You who cannot believe may no longer have faith in the strength of the souls of men, but we will do so with conviction.  I admire Saint-Just, Grantaire, and I may imitate him.  However, I am still Enjolras.”   
  
Grantaire could barely remember to breathe, enraptured as he was by Enjolras’s words.  Finally, he smiled.  “Then, Enjolras, you must always remain Enjolras.”   
  
The candlelight flickered.  Grantaire turned as if to leave.   
  
“Grantaire?”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
There was a strangely curious tone to Enjolras’s voice.  “You wrote an essay for this assignment.”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
“What was your topic?”   
  
For a moment, Enjolras thought he might have seen a gleam of something in the drunkard’s eye.   
  
“Athens.” 


End file.
